


Secrets in Salisbury

by felicitylemons



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Case Fic, Dreams, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Original Character(s), Period Typical Attitudes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2018-10-29 00:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10842561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felicitylemons/pseuds/felicitylemons
Summary: Miss Lemon invites Poirot and Hastings to a special opening of an art exhibition hosted by an old friend. Unfortunately, the brief vacation opens up a well of secrets that no one quite expected.





	1. Foreword—By Captain Arthur Hastings, O.B.E.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a bit of a mix between the original novels and the television series; I have tried to be consistent with Christie's style as much as possible while writing so that it would play out like an episode. And, of course, all characters are modeled after their television show counterparts. 
> 
> While I have done as much research as I can into all that I can, please tell me If anything is wrong. This is my first attempt at mystery and I would appreciate the feedback!

After much consideration, I have endeavored to tell my readers one of the most important events in not only my own life, but the life of my dear friend Hercule Poirot. I will always remember that particular week where he and I were invited by Miss Lemon to an art show held by her friend in the beautiful town of Salisbury. 

I will now state, for the record, that all of those involved in this narrative have given their express permission for the publication of the events that took place that week. As will soon become apparent, many things revealed at that time were of a highly personal nature. This text will therefore not be publicized until a time when it’s release will be safely received, even if my current readers will never see it. To provide an edited version of accounts would not only be a great injustice to my friends, but would alter the plot in a way that would make it unreadable. I must assure readers that every aspect of my retelling is vital. 

The case that transpired was, naturally, solved most ingeniously by Poirot; however, it was not the nature of the crime that has caused it to remain at the forefront of our minds. Many things not pertaining to the case were brought to light during the investigation, including some to do with my regard for my old friend. 

There is one thing I can say for sure: none of us left Salisbury quite the same as how we entered it.


	2. Prologue

It was an overcast Monday in March when I returned to Whitehaven Mansions after a brief jaunt to my club. I was quite surprised to hear my friend conversing with Miss Lemon in her office as I entered. Placing my coat and hat on the rack, I made to join them.

Poirot was standing at Miss Lemon’s desk, wearing his pince-nez and examining various papers spread in front of him. Miss Lemon hovered close behind, gesturing excitedly at what seemed to be the afternoon paper.

“Hullo Poirot, Miss Lemon.” They both turned to greet me as I entered. “What are you looking at there?”

“Oh, Captain Hastings!” Miss Lemon spoke, “As I was just telling Mr. Poirot, an artist friend of mine—Charlie Müller—is having an art show next Friday. You've both been invited to a special pre-showing a week from now for family and friends—that is, if you’re able to, of course.”

She brought my attention to a short column in the newspaper. It relayed much of what Miss Lemon already spoke of, with the addition of a small photograph of a landscape painting and the name of the place where the show would take place: a St. William’s Hall in Salisbury. She also explained that we would be staying at a hotel called 'The Snapdragon Inn', for which she also gave me a brochure for. From the photos on the brochure, it seemed to be an elaborate Victorian-style mansion that overlooked a large lake.

“Charlie is friends with the owners, and they’ve agreed to give you a reduced rate on your rooms. Of course, it will only be for two nights, but it _does_ have central heating,” she looked specifically at Poirot when she said this, “and a lovely restaurant… Will you be coming then, Mr. Poirot?”

“Perhaps.” Poirot replied stoically, although I could hear the hesitation in his voice as I passed him the brochure. He scrutinized it with great focus before placing it on the desk in a way so that it aligned with the map and newspaper perfectly. “Is there a train that goes to this Salisbury?”

“Oh yes, of course. There's one that leaves Sunday afternoon, in fact.”

Leave it to Miss Lemon to have everything sorted out and prepared before the little man even said yes, I thought to myself. 

“ _Bon._ ” Poirot assented. He then turned to me. “Hastings, what do you think about the _petites vacances?”_

I found that I desired a vacation with him greatly. My friend had not had a case for some time and was becoming quite restless; and a bored Poirot was not very enjoyable to be around, to say the least. An excursion into the countryside would surely do both of us some good. So, naturally, I agreed.

Miss Lemon seemed quite pleased, and she flashed us both an appreciative smile.

“It means a lot to me—to Charlie and I—that you’re going to attend, Captain Hastings. Mr. Poirot.” She said graciously.

“Will you be coming along with us Miss Lemon?” I asked.

“No, I’ll be leaving Friday evening so I can help Charlie with the exhibition. I’ve already cleared it with Mr. Poirot.”

Poirot smiled and nodded his egg-shaped head in confirmation. He had resumed his careful examination of the newspaper article.

Travelling with Poirot was always an interesting and enjoyable adventure, whether a crime occurred or not; although, quite selfishly, I often secretly hoped there would be. I never overcame the novelty of accompanying my friend while he solved some mystery or another with those dashed fine 'little gray-cells' of his.

No, I thought, this trip would be a simple excursion into the countryside that should alleviate some of the tension we all felt from weeks of inactivity.

How I wish that I was right.


	3. Sunday

**1**

The train ride to Salisbury was quiet and peaceful, and we arrived at the inn in the early afternoon. The proprietors of the establishment were two elderly women who welcomed us profusely before showing us to our rooms. I would not dare say it aloud, but I believe that Poirot being a client had something to do with our reduced rate and overly warm greeting.

I had been booked into a small room adjoining Poirot’s much larger one, which overlooked the small lake behind the hotel. Though my room’s own view was slightly lacking and the comforts less lavish overall, I never envied the differences in our accommodations. I was forever grateful to Poirot for footing my share of the bill on our many excursions outside of London—and of course, I had slept in much worse places in the past.

We had been invited to dinner at the residence of Charlie Müller that evening, so we both made haste in unpacking and dressing for dinner (or as hastily as Poirot would allow with his meticulous attention to how he arranged his possessions). One of the inn’s few personal drivers was made available to us, and we arrived at our destination no more than a quarter of an hour later.

The house was a small yet serviceable property, being a modernized country home. The brick was clearly replaced in various places, and the window frames had been re-painted in a moss green colour. Flowers of all sorts adorned planters surrounding the steps, and one could just see glimpses of a magnificent garden situated behind the house, though I was much more interested in the fine Hispano-Suiza parked in the driveway.

As we walked up the path from the road, I engaged Poirot with a question that had been bothering me since our arrival to Salisbury.          

“Have you ever met this Charlie Müller, Poirot?”

“No, _mon ami,_ I have not. But Miss Lemon has told to me a little about her.”

I stopped abruptly before the steps leading up to the house, as his words came to me at a great shock. “Hold on, Poirot. Did you say _her?_ ”

“ _Oui._ Does it surprise you?” He looked at me with genuine confusion, as though a woman with such a masculine name was an every-day occurrence.

“Er- Well, yes.” I paused and cleared my throat to (quite unsuccessfully) hide my embarrassment. “I assumed that we were visiting Miss Lemon’s, well… gentleman friend.”

Poirot chuckled.

“Ah, my innocent Hastings. Miss Lemon has not the need for the gentlemen friends.”

I could not understand his meaning as of yet, but had little time to dwell on it, as my friend had already began to ascend the steps. For a man of his weight and height, Poirot was surprisingly swift at times. I had to sprint up the steps to join him.

He rang the bell and the door was opened a moment later by Miss Lemon, who welcomed us into the home as though it were her own. Despite all of us being in an unprofessional setting, Miss Lemon slipped almost automatically into her role as Poirot’s secretary, removing our coats and placing them on a nearby rack.

“Charlie will be with us in a moment. She’s just finishing up in the garden.” Miss Lemon motioned to the hallway behind her.

As if on cue, the lady in question appeared in the hallway and bounded towards us in a slight hurry. She was a slender woman of medium height, with chestnut hair tied into a loose bun. She was, perhaps, not the catalogue definition of beautiful; but her small nose, square jaw, and the small mole just above her lip made her an attractive woman in her own way. However, her attire was quite unconventional, I thought, for a lady of her age. She wore a floral print blouse tucked into a pair of man’s trousers, as well as a garish cravat. Her forehead was also smeared with paint.

Poirot greeted our hostess. “Mademoiselle Müller, I presume?”

He took her hand near to his lips and bowed in his usual Gallic fashion, and she laughed.

“It’s _Madam_ Müller, thank you _._ And you _,_ I believe, are M. Poirot.”

Though her lips were drawn into a wide, beaming smile, her muted brown eyes held an inexplicable sadness to them that I could not begin to place. Turning to me with that same look, she offered me her hand. I shook it warmly.

“And you must be Captain Hastings! It’s so nice to finally meet you both.” After releasing my hand, she motioned towards herself with a fluttering motion. “I must apologize for my appearance. I discovered a minor problem with one of the last paintings for the show and, well, you know how it is—one problem turns into three, and so on.”

We all nodded and smiled in agreement, though I believe I was the only one who was untruthful in that regard.

“Now,” Mrs. Müller reached behind her and pulled a rope which was situated beside the doorway. “Please, wait in the sitting room while I dress for dinner. The rest should arrive shortly.”

A dark-skinned woman wearing an apron approached us from the hallway. She was stout with kind, brown eyes and hair done up in a short curl. Mrs. Müller greeted her with friendly affection.

“I’m so sorry Martha, I know you’re quite busy with dinner, but would you please bring these gentlemen some tea?”

“Of course, Charlie.” Martha replied with a smile before disappearing back down the hallway.

Mrs. Müller took her leave from us, and so we followed Miss Lemon into the sitting room. The area was comprised of a large billiards table in the corner by the bar, as well as two sofas and a pair of armchairs surrounding an ornate coffee table. Though the room was naturally dark with its oak furnishings, it was still rather warm and bright given the hour of the day, due to the sunlight streaming in from the picture windows looking into the garden.

“Miss Lemon, you did not mention that Madam Müller is married.” Poirot inquired as we sat down, he in the chair next to Miss Lemon and I on the nearest sofa. He was met with a raised eyebrow and a disapproving look from his secretary.

“I didn’t think it was the sort of thing for me to say.” She replied dryly, and took a sip from her previously-made cup of tea. But we both knew all too well that Poirot would never let a question go unanswered, so she continued with a sigh, “She _was_ married, Mr. Poirot. Her husband died of heart failure four years ago.”

“ _Je suis désolé._ Please offer my condolences.”

Thankfully, Martha arrived with our tea and the conversation soon turned to more pleasant topics. It was just over a quarter of an hour later when the front door opened and we left the sitting room to greet the last two members of the household.

Mrs. Müller had just descended the stairs near the front door as we arrived, and joined us in welcoming her family. Though she had changed into more formal attire, I noticed that she still wore that same gaudy cravat.

“This is my mother, Mrs. Burns, and my brother, Dante.” She announced. “Mother, Dante, meet Captain Arthur Hastings and M. Hercule Poirot.”

Mrs. Lucille Burns was a small woman whose frailty showed her advanced age. The many feathers that adorned her silver hair, as well as her squawking voice, reminded me of a peacock.

In stark contrast, Dante Burns was a man who presented himself as a classic Englishman, dressed in an unremarkable brown suit and matching tie. If it were not for him sharing the chestnut hair of his elder sister and the hazel-green eyes of his mother, I would never have guessed that they were in any way related.

“Ah-ha! You’re that Belgian detective fellow! _L’homme de bel espirit!_ Eh?” Mrs. Burns said excitedly as Poirot took her hand.

“You flatter me, Madam _._ ”

Dante glanced disapprovingly at his mother’s frivolity and coaxed her towards the stairs. “Come, now. I’ll help you to dress for dinner.” He gave us an exasperated smile before turning his attention back to his mother.

“I bet she dragged him to all the stores in town without buying a thing.” Mrs. Müller remarked as they departed. She continued, in a humorous but slightly bitter tone, “He suffers so much. Fitting, I suppose, given his name. Ha!”

“Why ‘Dante’?” I found myself asking.

“My father, before he died, was a professor of literature, and mother already had her choice in naming me the most outrageous thing she could think of. Oh, don’t get me confused, I love my name—unlike my poor little brother. And I’d be lying if I said that the masculine nature of my name hasn’t helped me in my business ventures.” She gave me wry smile.

 It seemed to me that this family was becoming stranger the more I learned of them. I wondered when this tense relationship between Mrs. Müller and her brother had originated, and why Dante seemed so irritated by his own mother. It could not only be due to a simple family squabble.  

The strained atmosphere, luckily, seemed to dissipate over dinner. When the conversation turned to Dante’s recent graduation from university and acquisition of a position as a solicitor, Mrs. Müller seemed genuinely proud of his accomplishments and talked at length about them to Miss Lemon and I as we shared a drink after dinner. I spent most of my time that evening apart from Poirot, who spoke animatedly in French to Mrs. Burns as they sat together on one of the sofas. Dante, who proclaimed himself as ‘not much of a drinker’, retired early.

After spending more time with Mrs. Müller, I decided that my original assessment of her was perhaps a little misguided. She was a pleasant conversationalist, and knew quite a bit about automobiles. I still found her manner of dress to be very queer of course; but she was a painter, and those artistic types were always a little bohemian in style.

However, the tension I had witnessed before still made an impression in my mind. I decided to voice my concerns to Poirot during our ride back to the inn.

“Is it not you who always says that I look for the case when there is none to find?” He said to me, dismissing my worries completely. Upon seeing my annoyance at this, he patted my knee in comfort.

“Do not trouble yourself, _mon ami._ Young M. Burns is, as you would say, the ‘black sheep’ of his family. It is only natural for him to feel some ill-will, _bien entendu,_ but it is of an innocent nature. Did you not feel the same towards your sisters?”

I had to agree with him, of course, but that was hardly the point. I was well aware that I wasn’t the brightest chap around—that went to Poirot—but I liked to think I had learned a thing or two about detecting over the years. The way Poirot would often doubt the validity of my insights bothered me considerably; and yet I knew all too well that I would continue to follow him along on his cases like always, with the ever-present desire to earn his praise.  

**2**

We returned to the inn around half-past 10 in the evening, where Poirot promptly retired for the night. Despite the lateness of the hour, I found myself unwilling to return to my room, as I did not feel tired enough for sleep (and I was, perhaps, still sore from Poirot’s disregard for me earlier). I decided to look at the inn’s restaurant, which I discovered had an impressive bar. Unsurprisingly, the place was practically empty, save for a couple seated at one of the tables and a large man at the bar. I took a seat next to the man and ordered a whiskey and soda.

The fellow seemed to pay me no mind at first, simply giving me a sideways glance from over his glass. He was perhaps 50 years of age, with coarse grey hair and a square face flushed from alcohol. His clothes were flamboyant and very well made for a drunkard, and it was clear from his otherwise disheveled appearance that he had probably been at the bar for quite some time.

“You- You here for Charlie’s art exhibition?” The man asked abruptly.

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

He laughed bitterly.

“W-ell! I’d say I have a thing or two to tell you about that that gold-digging wench _._ Things you’d  never know.”

Though this stranger was well trousered and clearly not of sound mind, the odd tone in his voice rooted me to my seat where it should have turned me away. So, I waited patiently while he downed his drink and promptly ordered another.

“That whore is a viper on legs.” The man began harshly. “She might make those pretty paintings, but she’s only where she is now because of Otto. Everyone thinks she’s something wonderful, but I know- I’ll tell you the truth.”

“The truth?”

He fell forward suddenly, and I had to hold him by the shoulders to prevent him from falling on top of me. The action seemed to be intentional, for he gripped me tightly by the arm and moved so that he was within inches of my face.

“Yes. The truth is… that woman is a cold-blooded murderess. I know it! She killed her innocent husband and then took everything he had. Ev-ery-thing. She killed him! That's the honest truth.” The hand on my arm gripped me even tighter.

I was absolutely shocked by his accusation. Was he truly speaking of the same Charlie Müller that I had met hours before, and was she in fact a murderer? Or were these simply ramblings of a drunken lout? I did not know what to think.

Fortunately, my dark considerations were interrupted by a young lady who had approached us from the entrance.

“Matthew! There you are. And drinking again, I see.” She remarked sadly to my companion.

“Hmph. If only you understood, Jules.” He scoffed and withdrew himself from me before taking a large sip of his scotch. The girl frowned, her eyebrows drawn into a little knot upon her forehead.

I noticed at once that she was a beautiful young woman, with short auburn hair and a sweet round face. I only wished that it wasn’t marred by such a mournful countenance.

“Oh, I hope he hasn’t been bothering you too much.” She said to me, a slight Australian accent evident in her voice. I rose from my chair to shake her hand. “My name is Julia Orwell, and I’m Matt- Mr. Heath’s secretary. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Captain Arthur Hastings. Are you here for the art show as well?” I asked.

“We are, yes. I’m a fan of Müller’s work; I'm trying to become an artist myself, actually. Mr. Heath… well he isn’t always like this.”

She grasped Mr. Heath’s by the collar of his jacket and managed to coax him out of his seat, albeit with some reluctance. The poor chap looked positively morose; a shadow of the passionate man I had spoken to moments before.

 “Would you like some help?” I offered, but she shook her head.

“That’s very sweet of you, Captain Hastings, but we’re fine.”

Mr. Heath placed a few Guineas on the bar—quite a liberal amount I thought—and was helped to the doors by Miss Orwell. I had a feeling that this situation was all too common for them both.

Miss Orwell paused in the doorway and turned to smile at me.

“I hope to see you soon, Captain Hastings.”

“Likewise.” I smiled back.

As I watched them depart, I thought back towards Mr. Heath’s accusation. I highly doubted, as queer as she was, that Mrs. Müller had done away with her husband. Besides, Miss Lemon had said that he had died of heart troubles.

Never the less, there must have been some reason behind it, or Mr. Heath would not have suggested it. Poirot would surely agree with me this time that my observation was worth consideration.

I finished and paid for my drink before returning to my room, resolving to tell Poirot about the conversation in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have 'cast' actors to hypothetically play every one of my characters, if this were to be an episode of the show... bonus points if you can guess any of them!
> 
> French Translations:  
>  _Je suis désolé_ \- I am sorry  
>  _L’homme de bel espirit_ \- The man of fine mind  
>  _Bien entendu_ \- Of course


	4. Monday Afternoon

**1**

It must be said that every man has some secret that he keeps hidden deep within him, something that society may deem shameful. Something that he hopes he has long forgotten. But as that fellow Freud says, these repressed memories often resurface through dreams.

When I was a boy, I was known to be quite the heavy sleeper; so much so that my mother would have to shake me awake on occasion, much to her frequent annoyance. However, this all changed during the war. Sleep had become a rare commodity, with the threat of attack constantly looming overhead. It wasn’t hard to change my habit of course, with the sounds of artillery fire and gunshots being as never-ending as the fighting had seemed.

I do not like to think of myself as a coward, but nor am I a liar. Therefore, I must admit that I was not exempt from the effects of being on the front lines. The horrors I suffered in France affected me for quite some time after my invalidation; through terrible nightmares that have, thankfully, disappeared over the years.

Except for those of Raymond Roland. A fellow lieutenant in my battalion, someone whom I had become close to during my service. I suppose, if there was any right time to come clean about my past, it would be in this novel.

That night, I had one such dream.

I was back in my old tent with Raymond, sharing a bottle of cognac he’d smuggled over with him, just like that fateful night all those years ago. That was, perhaps, what some would consider my first mistake; but we had lost so many men that day that it seemed to be all we could do to try and forget.

This Raymond, instead of engaging me with pleasant conversation or teasing me about something or other, was silent, only smiling at me while I drank.

His eyes were that same powerful grey they had been all those years ago, drawing me to him. It seemed as though the world around us had disappeared until we were the only ones in existence. All I could hear was the sound of a familiar whistling in the distance as he pressed his lips to mine. I was powerless to stop him; but perhaps, a part of me didn’t want to.

His unshaven jaw felt somehow sharp—like knives—against my face. The air around us smelled like gunpowder and iron, and the whistling became louder; the ringing in my ears became impossible to ignore, but by the time I realized what it was, it was too late.

I awoke with a start. My heart was beating fast in and my body was covered in a sheet of sweat. Ignoring the tightness in my chest, I turned on a light and found my watch; the timepiece read half past one in the morning.

I sighed, rose from my bed, and splashed my face with cold water from the washroom sink. I knew that I would not sleep again, at least not comfortably. I was used to this routine; being bombarded by reminders of my past, and of the war. Though it was something that I felt, at the time, had to be repressed.

I tried to push the memory away from my mind, and returned to bed.

**2**

It would be an understatement to say that I had slept poorly that first night in Salisbury. In fact, I barely had slept at all. Therefore, I rose quite late into the morning, and was forced to dress in haste.

Poirot scolded me for my lateness when I met him in the restaurant for breakfast, and immediately set on adjusting my tie in his particular fussy manner. The action never failed to make me flush with embarrassment, but at that time, being at the receiving end of Poirot’s obsessive need for perfection was a welcome break from my thoughts.

After a fairly uneventful morning devoted to breakfast and dressing for the art show, we arrived at St. William's hall without difficulty.

I was most surprised to see the chap I had sat with the previous night standing outside the front entrance when we arrived. In my haste to dress that morning (coupled with the fact that my dream seemed to be the only thing I could think about), I had completely forgotten about our conversation and my plan to tell Poirot about it.

“I say, Hastings, wasn’t it?” The man stopped and pulled me aside as we were heading up the drive. “Charlie told me you’d be here.”

He then introduced himself—properly this time—as Matthew Heath, a tailor from London. He looked much more put together than he had at our first meeting; His bow tie was properly arranged at his neck, and his jacket showed not even the hint of a wrinkle. The only evidence of the previous night's inebriation was that his eyes were dark with fatigue, and he kept pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stifle a headache.

“Look here,” Mr. Heath began. “I apologize for acting like such a rotter to you when we first met. Julia told me about what I said last night and- well- I didn’t mean any of it. Charlie’s an old friend, and I-”

“Think nothing of it, old chap. We all make mistakes.” I interrupted. Though I wished to question him further on what he had said, I decided that it would be prudent of me to respect his privacy. The situation obviously embarrassed him greatly.

“Thank you, my good Captain.” He ran his fingers nervously through his greying hair before shaking my hand gratefully.

I followed him into the building where he met up with Miss Orwell. Poirot, who had been waiting with Miss Lemon and Mrs. Müller’s maid, Martha, gave me an inquisitive look; but there was no time to explain myself, as the exhibition was about to begin.

We all took seats inside the hall’s theatre, where Mrs. Müller unveiled to us the pieces she had painted specifically for the showing, including an impressive rendition of the inn. I don’t claim to be an expert authority on oil paintings, but I believe even a layman could appreciate her talent.

“Your friend, Miss Lemon, has the considerable talent for painting.” Poirot was saying as we exited the theatre. “She could perhaps be the next Renoir, _n'est-ce-pas?_ ”

“She would be very pleased to hear that, Mr. Poirot, I’m sure.” Miss Lemon replied affably, smiling in the direction of her friend.

There were further paintings to examine along the walls of the building, situated down opposing hallways that joined in a rectangle from the lobby to the theater entrance. We had each been given a glass of sherry and instructed to peruse the art at our leisure.

“I say, look at this piece. The colours are quite remarkable, don’t you think? Though, you have to wonder who this fellow could be.” I gestured to a small painting that depicted a short man with straw-coloured hair tending to the garden in front of Mrs. Müller’s house.

“That’s Otto, I believe. Charlie’s husband.” Said Miss Lemon. "I met him many years ago, before his death. I seem to recall that the garden was originally his undertaking, not Charlie's."

Otto. The name that Mr. Heath had mentioned. I hadn’t linked the name to his accusation at the time.

My mind was once again reminded of all that I had witnessed over the past day. I found it very interesting that I had learned somewhat about the inner circumstances of the guests attending the show, despite only meeting them the previous evening. Even more queer, I thought, was the terrible feeling that those events all seemed to be connected by some deeper and darker mystery, one that I could not seem to place. It was as though I had become an unwilling participant in some secretive affair, and it unsettled me greatly. However, In the end, they were personal matters, so I thought nothing more about them.

Though I was unaware of it at the time, my curiosity would soon be sated in the events that followed that very day.

It began unpretentiously enough; with Mrs. Burns approaching her daughter and asking if she would ‘be a good little crumpet’ and be her support as she made the journey to ‘a good chair and an even better cigarette’. Being as old as she was, walking for an extended period of time seemed to be unsuitable to her constitution.

“I’ll be just a moment, Felicity.” Mrs. Müller had said to Miss Lemon. “I’m just going to help mother to the lounge.”

But she was more than ‘just a moment’. No; in fact, she was much longer than that.

We watched them until their figures disappeared around the corner of the hallway. I will never forget that moment; Watching Mrs. Burns limp down the hallway with her bird-like gait while Mrs. Mrs. Müller's taller form held her firmly by the arm, both of them unaware of what was to befall them that day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:
> 
>  _n'est-ce-pas_ = Is it not


	5. Monday Evening

**1**

We bided our time waiting for Mrs. Müller to return by discussing the paintings in the hallway we were in, during which we saw no-one else; another fact which was very odd, and one I failed to notice at the time.

It was a little more than a quarter of an hour later when the quick tapping of a woman’s heeled shoes sounded from around the corner. Abruptly, Miss Orwell appeared and ran towards us in consternation.

“Captain Hastings! It’s horrible!”

“My word, whatever’s the matter?” I asked her.

“I- there is—" She fumbled over her words, trembling terribly.

“What has happened, mademoiselle?” Poirot laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Please, you must tell us, and quickly!

“Oh, I can’t! It’s just so awful! I- I have to find Matthew!”

She broke away from Poirot’s grasp and pushed past us, disappearing down the hall once again.

I watched her run away as that same feeling of dread settled in my stomach. Miss Lemon glanced back at me with a worried countenance, and I could tell instantly what she was thinking; That Mrs. Müller, despite her assurance that she would return to us quickly, had been gone for nearly 15 minutes.

Suddenly, Poirot turned to us with an agitated look on his face, his moustache quivering slightly.

“The lounge!” He exclaimed, “ _Vite, mes amis, vite!_ ”

We lost no time in heading there. When we arrived, I noticed instantly that one of the frosted glass doors leading into the room was slightly ajar, and the air was eerily quiet.

Poirot, who was out of breath, leaned heavily against his cane and dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Hastings, if you would be so kind…” He waved his handkerchief towards the door.

I stared at the doors in trepidation. Whatever laid beyond them would surely be a terrible sight. Poirot must have noticed my hesitation, because he replaced his handkerchief in his pocket and put a comforting hand on my arm.

“ _Courage, mon brave._ ”

I gathered myself and gripped the handle of the opened door. I could face this; there was no denying that I had seen my fair share of death (if that was what was in there), much more than I cared to. We all had at some point or another, really.

The door swung open with a foreboding creak as I pulled on the handle. When I saw the scene that lay before me, I froze.

“Good lord.”

Mrs. Burns’ slumped body sat in an armchair in front of us, illuminated by the set of large windows at the back of the room. If it weren’t for the large handle of a knife sticking out from the middle of her chest, one might think that she was simply asleep.

Poirot, who had moved to stand beside me, made a similar exclamation. Miss Lemon looked on silently, a hand covering her mouth in shock. It was hard to believe that only moments before, we had seen her alive and well.

There was no need to determine if she was dead; it was obvious from the state of her, even from where we stood. Still, Poirot walked expeditiously to her side and put his fingers to her small wrist. I witnessed his expression visibly change into one of familiar determination as he assumed control of the situation.

“Miss Lemon. Please telephone the local authorities and alert them of what has happened.”

His assertiveness seemed to snap her out of her frozen state; she blinked a few times before giving a quick nod and dashing out of the room, closing the doors behind her.

I turned my attention to the scene in front of me. Upon closer examination, the handle protruding from Mrs. Burns’ chest was not a knife handle at all. The knob of the weapon was ivory gilded with gold, and the blade was thin at the handle but widened at the end. It was a horrid thing to look at, however, so I quickly turned away from it.

Beside the body, on a small side table, lay two of the same type of glasses we all had been given earlier; though neither held sherry, or any other drink. I hadn’t noticed before, but each glass had a distinctly coloured ribbon tied to its stem; one red, and one yellow.

“I say, Poirot, what colour of ribbon do you have tied around your glass?” I queried, without turning around to look at my friend, who was still investigating Mrs. Burns.

“ _Pardon_ _?_ My ribbon- Ah! The glasses of sherry! An excellent observation, _mon ami_.”  Poirot told me. His approval filled me with a distinct sense pride that I only felt during the rare times I was praised by the little man. It was very welcome, especially after his dismissal of my observations the day before.

Poirot moved to join me on the other side of the chair, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket as he did so. With the handkerchief in hand, he picked up one of the glasses and raised it so he could examine it in the light.

“Good, there still remains some liquid in the glasses. They will need to be tested.” He brought the glass to his nose and sniffed it.

“Do you think she was poisoned?” I asked.

“It is a possibility, _oui,_ but that of course would make the stabbing redundant. And, to answer your original question, the ribbon tied around my glass was violet in colour.”

“And mine was green. I believe they’re supposed to prevent confusion over whose glass is whose. So then which glass did Mrs. Burns drink from?”

Before he could answer, the doors swung open suddenly behind us. We turned to see Mr. Burns and Martha standing stock still, horror plain on their faces. Mr. Burns shouted and made to move towards the body, but Poirot was two steps ahead of him.

“Please, M. Burns, you must calm yourself. It is important that you do not touch anything!”

“What the hell do you mean? Damn it, man, that’s my mother! She’s-”

“Dante!” Martha interjected, “We need to leave. There’s no reason for us to be staying here anymore.”

For a moment, he stood there rigidly as an expression of anger and pain twisted onto his features. However, when he looked at Martha—who was beginning to look a little green at this point—he relented, turning swiftly on his heels and pushing past a very startled Miss Lemon. Martha hastily followed him, apologizing as she did so.

 “An inspector will be here shortly.” Miss Lemon told us. She then looked to Poirot and me, apprehension clear on her face. Poirot shook his head, and her face fell for a brief moment before she collected herself.

“Well, _mes amis,_ let us examine the room thoroughly before the inspector arrives.” Suggested Poirot, perhaps in part to distract Miss Lemon from her worries. He turned back to examining Mrs. Burns’ body and the chair she sat on.

Miss Lemon, looking suddenly—and quite obviously—out of her element, busied herself with looking through the cupboards of the small bar at the side of the room. I chose to look out the window at the darkening sky, images of dead soldiers from my past flooding my mind.

A few moments later, Miss Lemon brought our attention to the bar counter with the clearing of her throat.

“Mr. Poirot, there’s a smear of white powder here, on the counter. Now I can’t be certain, of course, but I believe it’s Barbital.”

Poirot reached out and touched the powder with his littlest finger—which he then brought to his lips to taste—and confirmed Miss Lemon’s theory.

“Barbital? You mean, as in sleeping powder?” I exclaimed. “So, she _was_ poisoned, then.”

“Perhaps. It is a curious find, none the less.” Said Poirot, who had moved around the counter to stand at Miss Lemon’s side. He seemed interested in something that she had clutched behind her back, in a way that almost suggested she wanted to hide it.

“Oh... this? I found it in one of the cupboards.” In her hand was a neck tie, slightly damp and covered in white powder. I noticed at once that it was the same style as the ones Mrs. Müller liked to wear. “Mr. Poirot, do you think that Charlie…”

“I do not know. As of yet, we cannot say for certain what Madam Müller has done.”

Suddenly a choked cry sounded behind us. Mrs. Müller stood in the doorway, as though we had summoned her through our conversation.

She stared at us with an expression terror not unlike one might have after seeing a ghost.

**2**

“I told you already! I brought my mother to the lounge and then went upstairs to the storage room. I shouldn’t have left her. If I had known-”

We had all gathered in the front foyer after Inspector Mulligan O’Hearn—a large, grey-haired man with a bushy moustache and tired eyes—arrived at the hall, to give his men some room to examine the lounge. Poirot and O’Hearn had chosen first to interrogate Mrs. Müller, who currently sat huddled on a bench. Miss Lemon was sitting beside her and was attempting to comfort her.

“But there are fifteen minutes for which you are unaccounted for, Madam. You must admit that the facts are against you.” Poirot pointed out, earning him a rum look from Miss Lemon.

“We’re not accusin’ ya of anything, Charline.” O’Hearn followed in his thick Scottish accent. He seemed disinterested in the whole affair. “We just need to ask what ya were doin’.”

Mrs. Müller put her face in her hands.

“I’m sorry, I… I need a cigarette.”

She reached into her purse and took one from a cigarette case. Placing it between her lips, she allowed Poirot to light it for her. He waited until she had taken one, long drag before continuing his questioning.

“Madam Müller. _Il est difficile_ , I know, but please tell us _exactly_ what occurred between the time you left Captain Hastings, Miss Lemon, and myself, to the time you entered the lounge.”

She nodded in assent, and took another breath of smoke before speaking.

“As I said before, I brought mother to the lounge and made sure she was comfortable. Then I began walking back to where I had left you; but I remembered that I still had some paintings to choose for the exhibition, so I went to the storage room on the second floor, where I had them stored. I lost track of time before remembering myself, and then returned to the first floor. As I was walking down the hallway I heard your voices coming from the lounge, so I went to join you. You know the rest.”

“And you saw no one during that time?”

“No-one.”

O’Hearn stepped in front of Poirot and presented the tie Miss Lemon found, as well the weapon that had been used to stab Mrs. Burns, which was covered in blood.

“Do ye recognize these?”

“That’s- Oh god… It’s the palette knife my father gave me for my fortieth birthday. He had it specially made for me, and it has no practical value; I keep it on a stand in my bedroom. The cravat is also mine, though it’s one I rarely wear.”

“Could someone have taken them?” I asked.

“I… I suppose someone could have. I’m not sure how, though.”

 “One last question, Madam.” Poirot pushed his way into the conversation once more. “Would anyone have cause to hurt Madam Burns, or to, perhaps, incriminate you in her death?”

“No! My mother was a wonderful, innocent old woman. I can’t see any reason why anyone would want to hurt her. Unless it was to incriminate me, as you said… Oh, I just don’t know.”

She covered her head in her hands, now obviously distressed. Poirot withdrew from his questioning.

“Thank you, Madam.”

Poirot, O’Hearn, and I then departed to a corner of the room where we could speak in private.

“What are your thoughts on this case, _mon Inspecteur_?” Poirot asked O’Hearn.

The Inspector stroked his chin in an almost comical manner for a moment.

“Hmm… It’s a tricky one, Mister Poy-rot, I’ll tell ya that. I’ve known dear Charline and her late mother Lucille fer many years, and I cannae believe that she’d kill her own mother in cold blood. If ye ask me, it’s that no-good brother of hers who’s done this.”

“Why on earth would you say that?!” I exclaimed. I found it hard to believe that a sensible young man like Mr. Burns would do such a horrible thing.

“That boy’s been nothin’ but disgraceful to his kin since he became a solicitor. Thinks he’s too good to care for his own mother. It’s damn unfortunate. But I have no proof, yet.”

I decided then to leave Poirot and O’Hearn to talk amongst themselves, as I had tired of the Inspector. I saw that Miss Orwell had collapsed into a chair and looked horribly pale, so I decided I should go over and offer my support.

Mr. Heath sat beside her and held her hand in his, and released it as I approached them. Miss Orwell stirred slightly, but otherwise remained asleep. The whole scene made me wonder about the extent of their relationship.

“Julia’s had quite the shock from finding the… body. I’m afraid you’ll have to speak to her when she’s feeling better. I think it’s best if we let the poor girl sleep.” Said Heath.

“By all means. I just wanted to ask if there was anything I could do to help.” I offered.

“Thank you, Hastings. I’ll be sure to call on you when she’s up to talking; she’d appreciate a friendly face.” He took out his pocket watch and frowned. “Do you know when we can leave? Ah, Inspector!”

He pushed past me in a sudden burst of rudeness and caught the attention of Inspector O’Hearn. I took a quick glance at my own watch; sure enough, the time read half past six.

Thankfully, upon the harried request of Mr. Heath, the Inspector begrudgingly released us with the promise that we would be questioned later.

When I met once more with Poirot, he was in a poor mood, complaining that he hadn’t brought the right coat for the chilly night air and that he would “Now surely catch the cold.” I could tell that his conversation with O’Hearn hadn’t gone well.

Miss Lemon stopped us in the doorway as we were leaving, looking very tense; It was quite the sight, especially when she was usually so confident in her manner. Martha stood behind her, and I was glad to see that she no longer looked as ill as she had before.

“Mr. Poirot, I hate to ask this of you, but- Oh, that Inspector O’Hearn is just so infuriating!” Miss Lemon raved.

“I fully agree, sir. The police in this town are downright useless; they only care about securing a quick arrest, and they’ll put her away without a second thought.” Elaborated Martha. “O’Hearn won’t even say Charlie’s name right, for god’s sake. Sir.”

“And you wish to hire Poirot to investigate this murder, _Oui?”_ His moustache quivered slightly in understanding as he addressed them.

“Yes Please, Mr. Poirot, I’ll pay you anything you wish.” Miss Lemon was nearly frantic now.

“That is not necessary, Miss Lemon. You are a friend, and it is my obligation to assist you when needed. However, if I am going solve this case for you, I must make one request.”

“Of course. Anything.”

“You must accept any conclusion I find, how-ever unwelcome it may be.”

Our friend paled considerably as the grave implication of Poirot’s words settled in her mind, but she nodded in agreement none the less.

“I’m just so worried that all this will ruin everything she’s worked towards; the showing, her career… I hope you understand.”

“ _Oui, je comprends_. Now, Miss Lemon, will you please telephone our dear Chief Inspector Japp at Scotland Yard and tell him of our situation? At your leisure, of course.”

That was the first time I had seen Miss Lemon smile since the murder. Martha, too, thanked Poirot profusely and offered whatever assistance she could give.

With the influence of the Chief inspector, I was sure that Poirot would be able to sway Inspector O'Hearn.

I helped my friend with putting on his coat and then donned my own, bracing myself for the coldness outside. Just as Poirot had donned his hat, he turned around to address Martha and Miss Lemon once more.

“ _Mes Amis,_ I assure you that I will have solved this mystery by the time of the art show. Or I will have failed you as a detective, and as a friend.”

And with that, we took our leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit longer this time; I couldn't resist leaving the last chapter at a cliffhanger!
> 
> French Translations:
> 
>  _Vite_ : Quickly  
>  _Il est difficile_ : It is difficult  
>  _je comprends_ : I understand


	6. Monday Night

During the ride back to the inn, Poirot was in an unusual contemplative silence. After a few minutes, he turned to me and said;

“Hastings, I believe I owe you an apology.”

“Whatever for?” I asked in surprise.

“For failing to recognise the importance of your observations, _mon cher ami._ There is, perhaps, more to the misgivings that Monsieur Burns has towards his family. So often I forget how valuable the insights of my dear friend can be when I am, on the rare occasion, blind to what is so obvious in front of me.”

His apology touched me deeply. I have often believed myself to be a fairly unremarkable and plain sort of man, and have frequently doubted my usefulness to Poirot beyond being his chauffeur. The fact that he truly valued me for my observational skills warmed me considerably.

“Thanks, old man.” 

Suddenly, I remembered that I had yet to inform him about Mr. Heath’s inebriated confession, much to my own disappointment. I was definitely not living up to Poirot's high perception of me. 

"Actually, Poirot, I fear that I've made a grave mistake. Something vital happened the other night after I left you, and... well... I've forgotten to tell you about it."

My friend listened to me with rapt attention as I hastened to tell him all I could remember about the conversation.

“Ah, so that is how you know of Monsieur Heath. This is something that I have been curious about.”

“And how do you know him?” I questioned in interest.

“I do not know him personally, but I know of his successes in the business of Tailoring. He is not as proficient as my own tailor, _certainement,_ but skilled none the less. I believe he has also made some progress as an art collector. And you say that Monsieur Heath has accused Madame Müller of murdering her husband?”

“He did. Although, he’d had quite a lot to drink at the time, so I didn’t take his remarks seriously. I hope I wasn’t too late in telling you about it.”

“No, no, Hastings, you are not ‘too late’. I am glad you have brought this matter to my attention; again, I can always count on you to provide me with any details I have missed!”

Once again, I felt myself colour in response to his praise of me; I was not used to such compliments from him.

“It is very interesting, this. What evidence would Monsieur Heath have to make this accusation, I wonder?” Poirot said thoughtfully, more as an aside to himself rather than to me. I was only thankful that he had not seemed to notice my embarrassment.

“What do you suggest we do now?” I asked, eager to distract him further.

“Unfortunately, with only Monsieur Heath’s words, we can do nothing but continue to examine the facts as they come to us _._ We simply must observe, ask all we can, _pour trouver la vérité_.” His moustache twitched slightly. “Hastings, I am convinced that there is much more to this murder as we had originally thought.”

At that point our cab had approached the Snapdragon inn, so our conversation ended abruptly. It had already gone past seven, so we settled for a quick dinner at the restaurant followed by a nightcap in Poirot’s room. We often shared drinks in this fashion after a particularly harrowing situation, especially when it involved people we knew personally.

“Do you know, Hastings, that Madam Burns was a florist?” Poirot said through a billow of smoke from one of his thin Russian cigarettes. Our conversation had turned to focus on remembering the late Lucille Burns.

“No, I didn’t. Is that what you two were talking about last night?” I replied.

“ _Oui_. she told me much about various plants of exotic nature which she had acquired and sold during her career. In fact, she even suggested that I should attempt gardening myself!”

I couldn’t help but chuckle at this.

“You? Kneeling on the ground and digging around in the dirt? I can’t imagine you ever enjoying such a thing, Poirot.”

“Ah, but I was assured that growing and cultivating certain plants, such as the marrow, is a very meticulous and precise process. It will be an excellent way to keep the little grey cells stimulated when I retire, _hein?_ ”

"If you say so, old boy."

Suddenly, his countenance turned quite dark, and he turned to look solemnly out of the window at the moon-lit lake below.

“For what little I knew of her, I found Madam Burns to be a remarkable woman. A bit, how do you say, outside her platform perhaps, but remarkable all he same. It is a shame that she was killed.” He lamented.

“A toast, then,” I raised my tumbler of brandy in the direction of Poirot’s gaze. “to a remarkable woman.”

“ _Pour elle_.” Poirot followed my motion.

“So,” I said after we had both had a sip of brandy, eager to lighten the mood. “you’re always attracted to the interesting characters aren't you?”

I regretted my words as soon as I had spoken them.

I had meant the comment to be in jest, but it ended up as sounding quite bitter—jealous, even—and I hadn’t the faintest idea at the time for why I had said it in the first place.

Poirot, as always, saw right through me.

“Are you suggesting that I would endeavor myself to become romantically involved with a woman twice my age?” 

 “No, well, that isn’t- I didn’t mean it that way.” It must be the fatigue, I convinced myself, or the brandy, that made me speak so out of turn. But somewhere in the back of my mind was the feeling that that wasn’t the entire truth.

 I was further taken aback when Poirot, who I expected to be very angry with me, simply looked at me with an unreadable countenance. He appeared to be neither upset nor insulted, but merely curious.

“I’m sorry if I offended you.” I apologized. Poirot shook his head.

“ _C’est bien_ , _mon ami.”_

We slipped into an uncomfortable silence then. The air became tense with some indistinguishable presence, and I was becoming increasingly aware of how tired I was from my lack of sleep. Poirot seemed contemplative and had turned to look out the window once more. I decided to finish my drink and retire for the night.

“I think I’ll head off to bed now, Poirot. Goodnight.”

He turned to face me. I had the impression he wanted to say something to me, but he decided against it.

“Goodnight, Hastings.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for another short chapter.
> 
> French Translations:  
>  _certainement_ = of course  
>  _pour trouver la vérité_ = to find the truth


End file.
